You got to be careful if you don’t know where you’re going, because you might not get there. – Yogi Berra

Friday, April 20, 2012 (DAY 47)Knowing that the first bus heading south to Rio Dulce left at 5:30am and it would be a 6km walk with our packs to Poptun, the time is 4am and the alarm clock is ringing, the morning of our escape has arrived. I will begin by saying that I would not recommend volunteering at Finca Ixobel if the owner, Carole, is present. The only reason I lasted five weeks is because she was absent of the premises and the entire time she was not around it was a fantastic place to be. However, if you find being talked down to in a condescending manner constantly, called upon verbally like a dog, treated as though you are incompetent when the ambiguity of her direction is the result of the outcome, required to do busy work when there are not guests because she attempts to run the business like her roots as an American, than by all means enjoy. The last straw for me came the night before just shortly after requesting to leave the next day in the absence of guests, power, and Internet. I was asked to bring back a cooler from the bar, which is a ten-minute walk next to the lagoon and did so, no problem. I was never told what to do other than bring it to the kitchen area and had no idea what this was going to be used for since it was at the request of Carole’s daughter. Later in the evening Carole asked who brought the cooler up and I stepped forward without hesitation and said it was me, she than began in to an irate tangent about how it should have been washed and while it wasn’t even that dirty she made it seem as though the end of the world may just spontaneously occur because how dare this cooler not be spotless as ice and bottles of beer were the only contents placed inside the unsanitary walls. Surprised at this lack of even the slightest bit of professional courtesy, let alone manners, I was taken back. Before I could even respond Roberto, the manager, thought it best to jump in and make a very rude and sarcastic statement directly in my face implying that I was incompetent as he asked if I thought it was brought up for someone to sit upon. Gritting my teeth, that was it, I knew I would be leaving first thing the next morning. I could not help but think how particular friends back home would have reacted to this situation, the first was my buddy Frank Gatto, he would have lit her up without a second thought, tears would have been the outcome and they certainly would not have been from him. The second person that quickly came to mind was Jeremy Vlad, and then on down the list with Andrea Vlad and several others. Laughing to myself, I was glad to see that I could still find humor in the situation and was not about to let this cranky woman get the better part of me. The final icing on the cake arrived after working a nine and a half hour day with no gratitude for putting in this extra time, especially after the previous comments were made, Carole should take a hard look at a quote from Randy Pausch, “Showing gratitude is one of the simplest yet most powerful things humans can do for each other.”

I do not want to dwell any further upon the unfortunate circumstances of my altercation with Carole, but feel that it is only fair to let other potential volunteers know exactly what they would be signing up for if they choose to spend time here.

Groggy, but ecstatic to be leaving, Armando and I throw on our packs and begin walking under the cover of moonlight and stars. Upon reaching the front gate that is under lock and key with the supervision of a guard and his rifle, Armando tells him something in Spanish and the gate is opened and we have reached our first milestone. The long dirt road has more potholes than smooth surfaces and we are marching with a mission–Honduras or bust. Within minutes of walking through the darkness, the neighborhood stray dogs, some that are sure to be rabid, begin their aggressive barking. Fearful of this thought we continue to press on but the fatigue is hard to ignore as the weight of our packs are settling in with each step. I continue to keep a close eye on the time, 4:45am, I calculate that we are about a third of the way to the bus terminal, but suddenly, off to the right in front of us there are two figures in the distance. As we approach the two bodies slowly lingering on the side of the road I hear my name called out, Troy. Surprised since the faces are indistinguishable in the darkness, the voice belongs to Lillian, one of the young cooks at the finca. Wanting to stop and explain with a brief goodbye, Armando reminds me that we don’t have time for this since it would be a series of translation back and forth since she did not speak English. Sadly, we rush by knowing we still have quite a distance to cover.

Ten minutes later and once again I am crossing the airport runway that has as many planes landing on it as there are sober groups sitting in the Rock Pile at Coors Field. The lights of the town are just ahead and soon we trade the dirt paths for concrete sidewalks, the second milestone has been reached. Winding through the town, unsure of exactly where the buses congregate, the time is just after 5am when we reach our second to last milestone. Sitting and waiting with the knowledge that we are at the mercy of Guatemalan time, the minutes pass and still there is no bus to be seen. Just shortly after 7am we are finally leaving Poptun and headed to Rio Dulce where we can purchase tickets to San Pedro Sula, Honduras. My second overland border crossing is successful, and as hoped, we are given a new 90-day stamp, allowing us to stay in the C4 Agreement countries (El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras, and Nicaragua) until July 19th. Traveling without a time limit is still the most preferred method in my opinion since it carries few restrictions, one of which is paying close attention to how long you have until you must exit particular countries or in this case entire regions. After a sweltering sauna ride in a bus without air conditioning or windows that opened, the three-hour nightmare was over and we transferred to a bus that had windows that opened. Thank God! Covered in sweat I climb aboard and pass out from exhaustion. 3:38pm, I awake as we are pulling into the largest bus terminal I have experienced thus far, San Pedro Sula. The massive bus terminal has two levels and feels more like a shopping mall on the inside, complete with a food court that carries all of the recognizable American staples–Pizza Hut, Burger King, McDonalds, etcetera, etcetera. Navigating our way through the crowds, we find one of the many options to purchase our bus ticket to La Ceiba. The first person we approach has a thick moustache and a slightly higher price ticket than the woman in the booth next to him. Opting towards the cheaper ticket with Diana Express, the woman also tells Armando in Spanish not to trust the Mexican guy in the booth next to her, and I cannot help but laugh. This also reminds me of the quote from Aldo when I asked him humorously who, if any, does Guatemala have conflict with, and his response was, we can’t stand Mexicans. Apparently there will always be differences between borders and neighboring countries. Almost five hours later and spending ten and a half hours on buses, we reach our final milestone at 8:10pm, La Ceiba. Breaking two of my rules, first riding a bus at night, especially in the newest murder capital of the world apparently, Honduras, and secondly, arriving in a new city after dark, it is only after an additional forty minutes of locating a place to stay, we settle on the third location we are taken to, Hotel Christopher, that reminds me more of the hotel in New York City from the movie Big. Yes, the bathroom is down the hall, the sheets are so paper thin I think just breathing on them would have opened another hole, upon check in we are given a single roll of toilet paper, and there is no sink in the bathroom. Welcome to Honduras. Completely exhausted, dehydrated, and hungry I curl up in my protective cocoon, also known as my sleep liner, not wanting to touch the sheets with my bare skin, and I am quickly asleep.

One of the gladdest moments of human life, methinks, is the departure upon a distant journey into unknown lands. Shaking off with one mighty effort the fetters of habit, the leaden weight of routine, the cloak of many cares and the slavery of home, man feels once more happy. – Richard Burton

Monday, April 16, 2012 (DAY 43)It is 8:35am, and I am covered in sweat and dirt, holding a machete, standing on top of a pyramid of dense jungle looking out over the horizon. I am addicted to endorphins and ready to live to be one hundred years old. Giddy up. The view is incredible as the grey clouds overhead provide a canopy of shade from the heat of the sun as it holds in the cool morning air, and you can sense the temperature rising through the thick humidity. The ascent to the summit of this Guatemalan mountain, that Coloradans would consider a lovely little hill, the steep rocky terrain vaguely reminds me of rock climbing in El Dorado Canyon just outside of Boulder, minus plants that develop leaves the size of Yugos and inhabit insects the size of dinner plates. I look over my shoulder and see Armando sitting on a rock winded from the vertical climb. Growing up at an altitude of 5,280 feet (1,609 meters) I feel fortunate that I am use to quick bouts of elevation, while my sea level compradre struggles with double vision and nausea. Unsure of how to handle the situation, I ask if he has taken his Midol for the day or if he would rather share his feelings out loud. Neither. I suppose he just has a case of the Mondays.

Since today is my day off, which you wouldn’t know otherwise, I would most likely be occupying the same colorful hammock swinging in the light breeze as the sounds of the chirping birds around me and I can think of nothing better than slowly falling asleep in this environment of relaxation as I am cradled into a siesta like a baby. Like a baby.

After fifteen minutes of taking in the 360-degree view through the foliage of the various plant life overlooking the scenic landscape that you cannot help but contemplate deep thoughts like that of Jack Handy, we decide that breakfast is calling. Making the steep downward climb, I find myself using the trees that line the narrow trail to support my weight, and in the absence of trees I grab hold of jungle vines as I turn my body to simulate a repelling motion as I am close to being vertical with the trail. Even before we started the hike, at the base of the pyramid, I told Armando that I can’t help but feel as though I have been placed in the movie Predator as the surroundings are identical. Thankfully no aliens with cloaking mechanisms are hunting us and we make it safely to the level ground below.

Night falls, and with it, the commotion of abrupt sounds of guns blasting through the darkness, interrupting the calm serene environment. Conflict has arrived at the Finca, and tensions are mounting. A small band of camouflage dressed rebels are being attacked by a more dominant group that are outfitted in white uniforms, and I witness the first bit of violence on my journey. Sitting in relative safety, huddling together and holding our breath, we wait. A battle between good and evil becomes clearly evident in the scuffle. Soon there is a new sound, a swooshing unique sound of a saber–a light saber. The screen from Armando’s Macbook has all of us on the edge of our seats. Earlier in the day, for the first time in his life, Armando was watching Return of the Jedi, shameful I know. And I call this person my friend? I should reconsider since he had also not watched Anchorman until the night before. What a smelly pirate hooker! He’s not a man that discovered the wheel or built the Eiffel Tower out metal and brawn. I’m pretty sure he has a brain a third the size of us (men) and should discontinue wearing Sex Panther immediately. IMMEDIATELY!

Anyways, while he was watching one of the greatest films of all-time, this of course caught the attention of two small boys, which later begged him to put on the movie for them after they had finished their dinner at the direction of their parents plea. Soon enough we had the entire German family as well as another older woman huddled around in captivating fashion, enjoying the masterpiece of my childhood. I am still amazed that Star Wars continues to span generations of young boys imagination and I cannot help but smile at their enthusiasm for the explosions and presence of light sabers in action.

The beginning of the credits is also the beginning of bedtime for our young viewers, short goodnights are exchanged and soon the galaxy is quiet and free of the Empire at the Finca. Armando and I begin a conversation that lasts into the late hours of the night, sharing in all of the places that we hope to visit. Our level of excitement begins to match that of the two young boys that sat and stared as the Dark Side was abolished by Luke Skywalker and I am convinced that I will never grow up as I continue to experience youthful reminders of my boyhood imagination.

Retiring for the night back to La Cometa, I cannot help but stare up at the sky and take in all of the stars shining down upon me. In the absence of city lights, the night sky presents all of the beauty that sadly becomes forgotten in a sea of glowing structures. Sitting alone, I turn off the small porch light and am now in complete darkness. Slowly my eyes adjust to the new contrast and within a matter of seconds more glimmering lights appear flickering above me. I sit in awe of this gorgeous view and take in the moment in solace. Turning my head to the right, still looking upward, a new set of small flickers catch my eye, lightning bugs. A great big smile is evident across my face through the pitch black darkness and I am quickly brought back to my childhood. Minutes pass and I am unconcerned with finding my bed, but want to cherish this night for just a few minutes longer. My thoughts continue to rest upon a variety of topics, finally settling upon one subject, one person, and the only words that come to mind, shmurnt murnt.

You do not travel if you are afraid of the unknown, you travel for the unknown, that reveals you with yourself. – Ella Maillart

Tuesday, April, 17, 2012 (DAYS 44 - 46) A quiet uneventful night in the jungle is interrupted by the crashing sound of thunder with a simultaneous burst of lightning, and with it, no more power. The rain that began as a light shower that is no stranger to the previous evenings is now beginning to pour with a ferocious force. It is just after 10pm as several of us are huddled together underneath the awning on the outdoor patio amid candlelight. This could easily have the potential to be a romantic situation, but I am surrounded by chorizo, no bueno. Running from the main part of the finca to La Cometa, within the forty-yard dash we are completely drenched. The sound of the rain seems to be magnified as it echoes off the metal roof over us and the power of the storm continues to throw down more water with a vengeance. At one point the candles are extinguished as we stand in relative darkness between bursts of lightning that turn the pitch black darkness into what could be mistaken as daylight in the brightness of the storm–a magnificent sight indeed.

The next day surprisingly brings no change in the humidity despite raining much of the night. In the absence of Internet, I find myself reading almost uncontrollably. Spending large portions of my day in a hammock, swinging along as I am taken back, I feel as though I have regained my passion for reading.

In the continued absence of guests and excitement around the finca, Armando and I decide to borrow two bicycles and make the journey to the sprawling metropolis of Poptun, Peten–all 24, 500 inhabitants of this massive city. After more than three hours of riding through the markets the clouds begin to gather, not wanting to be caught in a torrential rainstorm we begin to head back to the finca. Crossing over the airport landing strip whose International Air Transport Association code is PON, once again I pray that no surprise aircraft decides to land amid the makeshift road. Success. What an exciting Thursday morning it has been.

Come and live with me in peace and safety, away from all the Wangdoodles, and Hornswogglers, and Snozzwangers, and rotten, Vermicious Knids. — Willy Wonka

Sunday, April 15, 2012 (DAY 42)First of all I’d like to give a HUGE birthday shout out to my cousin Mike Michalak aka Milk Chocolate, aka Rain Drops, aka Mr. Clean! I am definitely missing our endless garage time discussions of one of our favorite topics THE DENVER BRONCOS, fulfilling gluttony at its finest at Rodizios Grill, Summertime mayhem at the corner of 20th & Blake, dominating softball in true Boozers fashion, & while I know it's your birthday, I still have to mention it, causing you to spout out enormous crocodile tears as I whoop up on you in both Madden and Mortal Kombat. Bahaha. It's your time old man, live life to the fullest! Love ya bro, now let's hug it out.

The laughter never ends at Finca Ixobel, and with it, the location of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. Let me explain. Earlier this afternoon I was fulfilling one of my volunteer duties by acting as a server in the restaurant to a group of English speaking tourists that consisted of all women and one lucky guy. Let me also mention that I have not worked in the restaurant industry prior to arriving at Finca Ixobel since I was fifteen years-old at Sharis in Westminster, Colorado, which sadly, and probably for the best overall welfare of humanity is no longer in operation. Since my skills as a server continue to be unpolished, I rely upon my debonair smile and charm, which brings an incredible tip of, wait for it, $1.86. Yeah I’m that good.

Joking and flirting with my table of primarily young female customers that could have easily passed as contestants for a Swiss Miss look-alike competition amid all of the blonde hair and blue eyes, which ironically was the nickname my good friend Eric gave to my girlfriend in high school, my sarcastic nature continues to spill over a few tables down where Armando and Aldo sit with their faces buried in their laptops. Out of complete randomness I ask Aldo if he knows who Willy Wanka is, looking up and nodding his head, he admits to knowing the chocolate genius. Continuing to play upon the humor I ask him if he has been to his chocolate factory. Dumbfounded by this question, he looks perplexed and inquires what I mean. Like a spider that has a helpless victim caught in it’s web, I realize that I can take this a step farther and ask if he has been to Wanka’s Factory. Leaning forward learning this new secretive piece of information, Aldo asks where it is. Laughing uncontrollably along with Armando, we begin to speak of this magical place with such enthusiasm that Aldo cannot contain himself wanting to know the exact location of Mr. Wanka’s intoxicating treats. At this point I am laughing so hard words become unrecognizable in my failed attempt to communicate this top secret information and all that is heard is random sounds mixed with gasps for air. After several minutes I am able to slightly, very slightly, contain myself enough to explain to Aldo that he should use his computer to do a search on Google maps for the hidden location as I walk away returning to my table of neglected customers, hinting that the location is in Central America.

Returning back to the table, Aldo’s quest for what has become his Holy Grail, I ask if he has had any luck in locating the Mecca of all Candy Lands. His look of disappointment says it all, and an eruption of laughter spills out of my mouth. I convincingly tell him that he’s just not looking hard enough and instruct him to ask Armando to assist in the search. This in turn causes Armando to lose it and if milk were anywhere in the vicinity of his mouth it would be spilling out his nose and down his face with how hard he was laughing as well. Walking away I ask Aldo if any other travelers have mentioned visiting the factory where dreams become reality, in which with the look of a helpless puppy, he shakes his head and says no.

Finally returning to the table to for the last time, I ask Aldo if he has had any more luck in acquiring the enchanted location of this mystical factory, and of course his answer is no. I am still laughing uncontrollably as he admits his failure in obtaining the address for Willy Wonka. Having my ridiculous amounts of laughs I admit to him that this is a fictional character that does not reside in Latin America and he cannot swim through the chocolate river, nor taste an everlasting gobstopper, or even chew gum that ends in becoming a blueberry and he realizes that he is the butt of a very hilarious joke. I can’t thank him enough for his good sense of humor in all of this, because this is by far the best entertainment I’ve had in the past several days. Thank you Aldo Willy Wanka Pablo Escobar.

These lazy Sunday Fundays have taken on a new meaning in Central America since it feels as though every day can fall under this category. I am still unbelievably thankful to be living out a dream that I know may seem courageous to many, but I view as a humbling honor to accept the challenge of what life has for me and live to embrace each new day with more passion than the one previous. This isn’t the secret to life, but is the progression that we should all be aspiring to regardless of the unique passions that exist within our hearts. “A man of ordinary talent will always be ordinary, whether he travels or not; but a man of superior talent will go to pieces if he remains forever in the same place…” – Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Be challenged in not just seeking change–talking about it, but in truly living the changes that you have sought after, this will bring you to a new level of character, and I promise you, others will take notice of it too. The truly passionate people in life are the ones that have taken risks, willing to face failure and ridicule, whether they succeed according to the definition in the opinions of others is vanity, for they know they can stand strongly with the knowledge of being true to the only opinion that matters, the life beating within their own soul. And to these individuals, I stand in admonition of what they have accomplished in just taking that first step, no longer talking about a dream but pursuing it wholeheartedly.

About the Author

My name is Troy and I gave up a promising 12-year career to travel the world! Now after more than 4-years of continuous global travel, I've lived an incredible life and my goal is to inspire others to achieve their dreams!